


Until Its Over

by The_Torturer_Writes



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: A no good very bad day, Angst, Feels, Other, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:01:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23824999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Torturer_Writes/pseuds/The_Torturer_Writes
Summary: Every year on this day, he disappeared, slipped away from his duties and his role to isolate himself in wounded silence because this was always a hard day, a conflicted day.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Reader, Kylo Ren/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12





	Until Its Over

**Author's Note:**

> Today is a hard day for me; and so, I wrote this drabble to deal with how I'm feeling. And I'm sharing it because that's what we do. We create and share our feelings so others don't feel so alone. <3

The TIE silencer touched down just as dawn broke, an inky spot on the horizon. He didn’t care what planet this was, didn’t care about the name of it or its people. He only cared that nobody knew where he was.

The ramp hissed open, and he sat in the pilot seat, squished safe into the vehicle of his hate, until it finished lowering completely. Leaving behind helmet, gloves, and cloak, all markers of his unfeeling mask, he pushed out of the craft and towards the cliff he’d selected for this very specific purpose.

For a long time, he stared out into the canyon, contemplating its depth and the craggy, sharp rocks. This was a brown planet, a desert planet, and it brought back memories of childhood and parentage. He was a dark smudge against a desolate backdrop, nothing more.

Benumbed, he dropped down to sit right at that very edge, watching pebbles and dirt scatter over the cliff. Heavy-lidded, dark eyes stared at the first rays of sunlight breaking into existence, and he wondered if you would have liked the striking display.

Every year on this day, he disappeared, slipped away from his duties and his role to isolate himself in wounded silence because this was always a hard day, a conflicted day.

You would say that you had been the right kind of mother. That you had given him every opportunity and that you had paved the way for him to have a better life. You would say that you had sacrificed everything for him and that he was your whole world.

And you would not be wrong.

But he would say that he spent too many nights crying because of your absence, that it was your disappointment, your heavy-handed domination that twisted his young brain, his too-tender heart into knots. He would say that you loved him too much and that it chased him away.

You had given him life. You had cradled him as a child and kissed his hurts away. You were his _mother_.

But you were also his weight.

Absently, he reached up to rub the small scar just beneath his hairline. He remembered stumbling home with a bloody head and you tucking him in close to stitch the wound. He also recalled you scolding him for not being careful, for not taking better note of his surroundings. He was a child, and he had fallen; but to you, it was carelessness.

You were his greatest critic, his angriest regret. He recalled every irritated word you ever spoke, every frustrated stare and sigh. He remembered every time he felt that he would never measure up to your expectation.

Who had sent him to the dark side if not you? Who had started this path with overbearing closeness? Who had pushed and pushed until he could not bring himself to go home, to call for you, or even speak your name?

Sorrowful tears collected in his eyes and rolled down his cheeks, but he did not brush them away. He did not bother to press trembling lips into a hard line, nor did he attempt to buffer the pained whimpers and hiccups that shook him.

Today was the one day that he would allow this emotion, this weakness, to roll over him unhindered. This was the one time he would not meet emotion with anger but with reluctant acceptance.

Today was the only day he would allow himself to be haunted by your specter, the memory of you clinging to him like smoke.

He would sit here all day, mired in this torment until it was no longer today.

Until it was over.

Your birthday.


End file.
